


Crime and Punishment

by hoosierbitch



Category: White Collar
Genre: BDSM, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Graphic Sex, Kink, M/M, Pervertibles, Porn, Punishment, Sex Toys, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-22
Updated: 2010-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal crosses a line, and Peter punishes him for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crime and Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for [](http://lovefanfiction.livejournal.com/profile)[**lovefanfiction**](http://lovefanfiction.livejournal.com/) as part of the "Five Acts Meme." She asked for punishment, pervertibles, and orgasm denial. And huge thanks as always to [](http://photoash.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://photoash.livejournal.com/)**photoash**, for her wonderful support!

"Peter, I'm _really_ sorry - "

"Shut up." Peter slammed his door and glared at the steering wheel. "If you talk again, I won't take you home and punish you. Instead, I will drive you to June's, and leave you there. It's your choice."

A few months ago, Peter's offer would have seemed like a joke - choosing between some unknown punishment at Peter's hand, for a relatively minor transgression, weighed against a weekend on his own at June's.

But a lot had changed over the last few months. And - he didn't want to be on his own. He needed Peter to know he was sorry. He needed Peter to know that he could do better.

Peter gave him a few minutes to stew in silence. To realize how furious he was - angry like he'd never been before. Not at Neal, anyway. Not since they’d gone from friends to – as weird as the word sounded - lovers. Peter's voice, when he spoke again, was cold. "You can speak to answer me, and that's it."

"The punishment," Neal replied. He would have said more - said _sorry_ or _what are you going to do,_ but honestly, he didn't really want to know. When they got to the Burkes' house Peter led him inside. Neal knew what to do after that. He took off his shoes, jacket, vest, socks, and tie, and then knelt on the floor, eyes down. He positioned himself in the center of the living room, and he didn't look up to see what Peter was doing. Moving something on the shelf, it sounded like.

"Why did you do it?" Peter asked.

"I - I thought I might find a clue."

"A clue." Peter was closer to him. Behind him. "So you decided to check the evidence out of the locker - _forging my signature_ in the process - because of a _hunch_?"

"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds - "

"Strip." Peter wasn't going to let him even try to talk his way out of this one.

Neal stood and undressed as quickly as he could. When he was naked Peter grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him over to the coffee table. The edges dug into his stomach and he knocked off the remote with his elbow when Peter spread him out across it. Peter didn't seem to notice. Instead he took off his tie, grabbed Neal's from the floor, and tied Neal's hands to the table legs. "If you move, they'll tighten. So don't move.

"I'm going to punish you," Peter said, like Neal's blood wasn't already pounding with expectation. "Since you don't seem to have any common sense of your own, I'm just going to have to beat it into you."

Neal's heart lurched in his chest. They'd played hard before - he'd told Peter he wouldn't mind going a bit further, but this - Peter was so angry. He opened his mouth to say something when Peter spanked him the first time. It took him a few hits before he could crane his head around far enough to see what Peter was using - it was a book he'd grabbed off the shelf. A thick, leather-bound edition of something Russian, and Peter was smacking it against Neal's ass as hard as he could.

"F - fuck," he moaned, his breath knocked out of him with each blow, his stomach digging into the edge of the table.

"Each time you talk, I'm adding on five strikes. You had fifteen more to go, so that makes it twenty."

By the time Peter finished, Neal was panting for breath, crying unashamedly, his cock dripping precum onto the carpet. But he’d kept quiet. Peter put the book back onto the shelf and went upstairs, leaving Neal alone for - for he didn't know how long. It felt like hours. His tears dried on his face, his skin felt stretched and burnt. He was uncomfortable and turned on and every part of him was tense. Peter wasn't done yet.

When he came back he had a hairbrush. He stroked Neal's ass gently with the smooth wood, then once with the bristles. Neal managed to bite back the whimper that built in the back of his throat. Part pain, part arousal, mostly fear.

"Do you know why I'm doing this?" Peter asked. "You can speak," he said after a moment's silence.

"I checked out the evidence, and forged your signature. I broke the rules."

"The rules are there for a reason," Peter said, and the first crack of the hairbrush against his thighs was loud, a solid, fleshy sound, and Neal didn't know if it echoed in the room or just in his body, which shook with startled pain. "If the chain of evidence is disrupted, it can destroy an entire case. All the work we put in - " Two stokes. Right on the curve of his ass. "Down the drain. Because - of your - hunch." Three more. All on his right cheek. He couldn't hold back the yells that spilled from his throat. Peter came in front of the table and stuffed Neal's vest in his mouth. "Nine more. Scream all you want."

He did. He would have screamed even without Peter's permission, even without the gag, he couldn't - Jesus, it _hurt_, each blow bruising, each blow a reminder that he'd _failed_, he'd failed _Peter_. He could've fucked up the whole case, a multi-million dollar pyramid scheme, the weeks of work they'd poured into it, all because he'd wanted to see the letters again. He'd taken evidence out before - brought it home to Moz, or just for his own perusal. It hadn't seemed like a big deal. Apparently - two more blows so hard it felt like Peter was wielding a baseball bat instead of El's hairbrush - it was.

He was bruised, his muscles felt like jelly, his throat was hoarse from screaming, and his jaw ached by the time Peter stopped. Stroked the wood one last time over his ass and hit him, right in the center of his left cheek, as hard as he could.

Neal sobbed when Peter dropped the brush on the floor and untied him. Peter took the vest out of his mouth, carefully unwound the ties from his wrists, and cleaned his face gently with a wet handtowel. He must have gotten it when he went upstairs for the brush. Neal smiled, even through the pain of Peter lifting him off of his knees and moving him to the couch. Even as angry as Peter had been, he'd still taken care of Neal.

"Fuck," Peter said, stretching Neal out on the couch. He ran a gentle hand down Neal's back. He ghosted it over the welts on Neal's buttocks and Neal started to thrust against the pillows - he was going to make a mess of them, at this rate. "Are you seriously horny right now?"

Neal froze. Usually, after a scene that was about more pain than pleasure, Peter would fuck him. And Neal _needed_ that comfort. The pain in his buttocks was proof that he'd screwed up - Peter fucking him was the knowledge that he'd made up for it. That Neal was still his boy, still his partner, that Peter forgave him.

But this wasn’t one of their typical scenes. This wasn’t about sex, it was about – about Neal fucking up so bad Peter didn’t even want to touch him afterwards. Neal couldn’t help that his body had confused the signals, that he expected tenderness from Peter, some release – but that wasn’t what Peter had in mind. He tried to turn onto his side, to hide his erection, get it away from the couch cushions – he wanted to come so badly he couldn’t handle the temptation to just rut against them until he came.

"No, I’m – of course I’m not. I can - I don't need - " He was raw enough that the lie was ridiculously clumsy. Peter's hand settled on his hip, just brushing the edge of the bruising, and Neal quieted.

"It wasn't too much?" Peter asked.

"No," Neal said softly. "It was perfect." His ass was bruised, but he'd be able to sit comfortably enough come Monday. It would remind him of what happened when he disobeyed Peter. The danger of giving in to all his little whims. He hoped that the hurt would linger.

"What do you need?" Peter asked, and Neal's arousal hit him like a shockwave. All the tension in him seemed to center around his cock, his ass, his mouth -

"I want - I need you to fuck me."

"Christ, Neal - your ass is - there's no way that would be comfortable! And I'm not - I'm not hard," Peter said.

"Please," Neal asked, and he winced at how pathetic he sounded.

"Okay," Peter murmured, running his hand down Neal's back. He arched into the touch as much as he could. "I know what you need. But we haven't cleaned the dildos yet, and I know you don't want to wait while I wash them. And I _really_ don't think I can fuck you with your ass like that."

"The remote," Neal said, the words leaving his mouth almost before the thought had finished processing. "You can fuck me with the remote."

To his credit, Peter didn't ask if he was serious. Instead he got off the couch, picked up the remote, and wrapped his hand around it. "It's - well, it's not bigger than my cock. But it's a lot harder.” He hefted it up into the air, getting a feel for the weight and texture of it. Neal’s mouth watered. “Are you sure?"

Instead of answering Neal rolled onto his back and pulled his knees up to his chest. "I’ll take that as a yes." Peter set the remote back down on the table and got a condom out of his wallet. "Give me a minute, I'll go grab lube - "

The kitchen was closer. "Just get olive oil." Neal could see Peter's cock jump, even through the layers of fabric hiding it.

"Fuck," Peter said. "You're really desperate for it, aren't you?" Neal let his right leg rest on the top of the couch, slicked his hand with precum, and started to finger himself. "Right. Olive oil. Got it."

When Peter came back from the kitchen he slapped Neal's hand away. "Spread your thighs, Neal. I want to be able to see what I'm doing."

It almost hurt, pulling his fingers out of his hole. That brief moment where he was empty and hurting and Peter wasn't touching him. Then Peter lifted his hips off the couch to slide a towel underneath him, opened up the olive oil, and slid two fingers all the way into his ass.

Neal choked on air. He wasn't expecting that, Peter was already stretching his fingers out so wide - "Gotta get you open," Peter murmured, pouring more oil on his fingers and adding a third one. Neal couldn't stop himself from trying to get away - but twisted up as he was, all he managed to do was fuck himself further down on Peter's fingers. The oil was so slick that Peter's fingers scissored easily inside of him.

“Gotta get your hole loose, and wet – “ Neal whined and couldn’t help but clench down harder on Peter’s fingers. “Oh, you like that, don’t you.” Peter kissed the back of Neal’s knee and started twisting his hand around, viscous turns of his wrist that had Neal wailing – he lost his grip on his knees and his legs fell over Peter’s shoulder.

Peter laughed and leaned over to kiss Neal, spreading his thighs even further, pressing his thumb against Neal’s perineum. Neal couldn’t help it – he grabbed Peter’s head and pulled him in close, sobbing into his mouth more than kissing him – Peter just smiled, and kissed the sides of his mouth, his chin, his neck when Neal pulled him lower – the whole time his hand was twisting inside Neal’s hole. And his thighs were pressed against Neal’s ass. The pain made him gasp, the pleasure made him let go of Peter, and grab the remote.

Peter sat back and watched him. It took him a few tries to open the condom wrapper and slick it down over the hard plastic. Peter sneaking a finger from his other hand alongside the three currently torturing him wasn’t helping. “Are you – trying to _fist_ me?” Neal asked.

Peter looked speculatively down at Neal’s hole, and then pulled his fingers out to the sides as far as they would go. “Maybe later,” he said as Neal screamed.

He leaned down and blew into Neal’s hole gently, and Neal didn’t even know what sounds were coming out of his mouth. Peter licked at his balls and Neal dropped the remote to cover his mouth, to try and stifle the embarrasing moans he couldn't hold back. “Look at your pretty little hole,” Peter said, thrusting two fingers in and out slowly while Neal tried to regain control of his limbs. “I’d rim you, but olive oil’s not my favorite flavor. Maybe _next_ time, you’ll be a little more patient, and let me go upstairs for the lube, hmm?”

Neal was trying to think of a snarky reminder but honestly, he couldn’t think of much past the pain in his cock. “Gonna come,” he said, because Peter always wanted to know when Neal was close. Wanted to control the moment he went over the edge.

“No,” Peter said. “Not yet.”

The remote was thin, but wide. Like three fingers, side-by-side. Only harder, longer, and with sharp, painful corners.

“Is this even going to fit?” Peter wondered out loud. Neal, whose mouth had fallen open, didn’t reply. The first press of it into his hole was unlike anything else he’d experienced. Peter rocked it from side to side, the latex rubbing against his rim, the stretch of it felt – impossible. “Relax,” Peter said, and it slid in.

Slowly. It didn’t fit the contours of his body. Didn’t bend, didn’t follow the lines of his sphincter – every inch was a stretch. Peter went slowly. His eyes never left Neal’s face, his fingers stayed firm on the end of the remote. He kept pushing it in. Neal could feel his legs and stomach twitching. “You like it?” Peter asked.

“Yes,” Neal said. Because – because there was something filthy and forbidden about the remote that they used, that all of them used without a second thought, shoved up his ass because he was so desperate for cock he couldn’t wait for Peter to get hard. Something exciting about the fact that it didn’t fit – not perfectly, not right away, not without twinges of discomfort – he felt a sense of accomplishment that it went in at all. Pride in his body, that he got pleasure from it.

And then there was Peter. So intent on Neal’s pleasure. Looking at him – his face, his chest, his ass, his knees still slung over his shoulder, his tracker digging into Peter’s back – like he was unbelievable. Like he was amazed at what Neal was doing.

Another inch and it hit his prostate, and all rational thought left him. Another few minutes of pain and unfamiliar stimulation and Peter bent down again and thrust his tongue between the long side of the remote and Neal’s hole, where the unfamiliar shape left a little space – and he licked at Neal’s skin, thrust in and out with his tongue while the remote just kept pressing in, and in, and Neal didn’t understand how he hadn’t come yet.

Except Peter hadn’t told him to. And he already felt like he was in unfamiliar territory – his body was exhausted, sore, pressed to its limits, this wasn’t like any build to climax he’d ever felt before - this was just every inch of his skin screaming for more, every hitch of his hips burying the remote further inside of him, every breath that he took heavy and humid in his lungs.

And then Peter ran his nails over Neal’s ass, scraped them over the bruised, tender skin, and all of his muscles tensed. Oh, _fuck_, the remote felt huge and unforgiving, he tried to reach down, to pull it out – but Peter wouldn’t let him. “I love you like this,” Peter said, as Neal tugged helplessly at Peter’s wrists.

He scraped his fingernails over Neal’s ass again, and again and again and Neal didn’t know what he’d done wrong, why Peter was doing this – and then he realized that Peter had stopped. That Peter was coming. Ropes of semen landed on Neal's thighs, his ass, his stomach. Peter hadn’t been touching himself. He’d come just from watching Neal. Watching his hole try to close around the remote, watching him cry, watching Neal open himself to every sensation that Peter gave him – good, or bad, or painful, or impossible - he felt a burst of pride. He had made Peter come.

Peter started to ease the remote out and Neal whined. “Oh, now you want it back? You’ve got to make up your mind, Neal,” and he shoved it all the way back in, until Neal could most taste it, cheap plastic in the back of his throat. “Do you want it in, or out?”

Then he started fucking Neal in earnest. The rows of buttons scraped against his rim, against the flesh inside of him – but none of that mattered. Because the corner of the remote was hitting his prostate dead on with each thrust. And Peter’s hand was wrapped around his cock.

“Don’t come yet,” Peter said, and Neal felt like he couldn’t breathe, Peter’s hand was on his dick and all of a sudden it seemed like every nerve, every bruise, every burn and welt and ache in his body had been building towards this moment – “Don’t come yet,” Peter said, twisting the remote inside him, fucking it in and out, looking at Neal like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing – “Now,” he said. “Come for me.”

And his toes curled and his head fell back and his mouth opened in a silent scream – his body tightened around the remote, clung to it as Peter pulled it out, yielded before it as he shoved it back in, deeper, harder, _right there - _

"_Yes_," Peter said, and he came.


End file.
